


Let Your Teeth Sink In

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Biting, M/M, Recurring relationship, Reincarnation, Smut, Stalking, Vampires, Vampires absolutely will hurt you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 09:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: Pete is a vampire.Patrick keeps showing up.





	Let Your Teeth Sink In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctorkilljoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkilljoy/gifts).



> Happy birthday to the ever lovely [doctorkilljoy!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkilljoy/pseuds/doctorkilljoy)
> 
> I hope you have a fantastic day, here's a little something to aid the celebrations!
> 
> The artwork is by the amazing [Das_verlorene_Kind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind) and you can check out more of her (utterly amazing) artwork [here on her blog!](http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/) Go and follow her, I promise you won't regret it!
> 
>  

It’s a fogged-breath cool October night in Illinois, fallen leaves shuffling lazily against the sidewalk. It’s a night for beasts and boys and silent steps.

 

He doesn’t really think much about daylight anymore. Not beyond knowing he needs to avoid it, his yearning for lizard scale heat giving way to the kind of muscle-memory shivers that jolt him to the furthest corner of his room as dawn breaks. But he knows that nightfall is sacred, that the velvet dark curtain of it that falls around him like a comfortable old coat provides easy reassurance as he pads on rubber-soled sneakers, half a block behind (Behind what? His prey? Something more?). So much stealthier than leather-heeled boots and the _taptaptap_ of them on cobblestone.

 

The scent of _him_ is thick and heady. It replaces the vein-bright hum of under-the-skin _knowing_ that rocketed through him the moment he set foot in the suburb three weeks ago.

 

He knew he’d see him again soon.

 

He’s young this time, not yet twenty, the smell of teenage sweat and cheap body spray mingled sharp with top notes of desperate hormones. Youth was convenient once, in the days when kids went missing all the time, when he found him hunkered in a trench on a battlefield with his helmet askew and his rifle clutched in shivering hands. Easy enough to make him disappear, another missing boy without a body - another missing Patrick - for a mother to weep over. He doesn’t speak much to other predators, but they all agree that war is rich pickings for little effort.

 

It’s not as straightforward now. There are missing person reports and witness statements, posters around city blocks and televised pleas for the lost boys to come home. There are bones found months later, bleached bright in the sun or dirtied dark in the earth. It doesn’t matter to him, he’s always long gone. He flinches with the knowledge of _some day_ , though, the burning brightness of dawn in a cell, bones to ash and centuries of… whatever this is, exchanged for one flame-bright moment of sunlight.

 

So far, it hasn’t happened. So far, Pete has slipped away with the shadows and left nothing but pale lifelessness in his wake. This time and every time that’s fallen before it, every time that will come again, it’s always the same.

 

It began in Växjö, by the lake. A boy that wandered from the rest, alone and in the dark. A boy named Patrik who bared his throat and faced death bravely. They never face it bravely, there’s always pleading, begging, pitiful _whining_. Pete had heard enough of it in the centuries that came before Patrik, would hear it again in years to come. But the boy didn’t beg, he didn’t cry or plead, he offered his throat with nothing more than the faintest hum of a tremor as lakeshore eyes burnt defiantly into Pete’s.

 

The kid ahead coughs, and casts a glance back over his shoulder, casually checking for cars as he kicks an empty soda can along the sidewalk ahead of him. It clatters fit to wake the dead - if they weren’t already awake and hunting - rattling like bones against asphalt and concrete. Pete fiddles with the way his hood lies over his bangs, casually careless, and listens to the way the kid’s pulse throbs in his veins.

 

He’s been watching him for days now, lurking in shadows that pool in dark places, learning his habits, his routines. He knows which bus he takes to work at some record store two suburbs over. He knows which night he has band practice in some kid named Joe’s garage. He knows what time he walks home, music loud and self-awareness low, scuffed boots thudding a rhythm into the sidewalk.

 

Three summers from the first night, from the smell of sweat and blood-under-skin, Patrik begged.

 

They always beg in the end but this one begged for death-but-not-finished, for the eternal twilight that held Pete for centuries before he was born and would cling to him for many more centuries to come. He’d nodded - though his un-beating heart had twisted with something uncharacteristically like regret - kissed warm lips breathless, tasted vibrant, salt-tang skin under his tongue. Then he sunk his teeth into the soft vein that pulsed rich beneath his pale skin.

 

 

Pete had drained the humanity from Patrik over their time together, it seemed only fitting that he should drain everything else, too.

 

He’s unsure, this one, Pete can sense it. There’s some jangling sense of nervousness that pricks sweat under his arms and down his back even though it’s cold out. He shuffles a hand in his pocket and, for a moment, bathes his face in blue light as he checks his cell phone before plunging back into orange-gold shadows cast from beacon-bright street lights.

 

Pete watches the teen cross the street ahead of him, watches him sink his hands a little further into his pockets. Pete can see him shivering, even at a distance. It’s a little too cool for a hoodie, not quite cool enough for a jacket. He’s around the corner and out of sight in a heartbeat but Pete can feel him, feel the pulse of blood, rich in his veins, the shuddered rise and fall of his breathing. He can hear the tinny rattle of music that pounds from the headphones with a bass line that matches his heartbeat. Patrik always did love to sing.

 

Or was that Páraic? His head is a whirl of names – Patrice, Patryk, Patricio, Patrekur, Patricui – dozens of men over dozens of decades, he’s found them all. He’s stumbled across them even when he wasn’t looking but now, oh now, he gets that empty-vein itch when it’s time and always knows just where to go, just where to look.

 

He rounds the corner and for a moment he falters, eyes roving quick-sharp along the fringe of trees cast in silvered moonlight shadows. He knows the kid lives on the other side of the park, but he always walks around, skirting the fence and following the road until it links up to the block where his house sits, neat and middle class and innocuous. But the sidewalk is empty and the trees beckon with mischievous promise to conceal bad deeds committed by terrible men.

 

Or the things that look like men.

 

Pete tucks his hands down into the pockets of his coat and examines the toes of his shoes for the briefest moment. The park? It’s as good a place as any and he crosses the street, leisurely and casual. If anyone sees him, if they see the local news in the morning, if they make the link…

 

No, best not to draw attention to himself, best to let the shadows swallow him down as he moves through the gates and breathes deeply.

 

There’s a tingle in his jaw, the tell-tale flood of spit that coats his tongue and he swallows sharply, eyes roving for movement. He can’t see him, the path ahead deserted and lost to puddled darkness. Pete’s pupils blow, blazing the treeline for movement, nose carefully working the air for the scent of sweat and skin. There’s a creak of rubber on metal to his left, soft enough that most of the citizens of Glenview roaming the streets at this hour wouldn’t have noticed it. To Pete’s it’s cacophonous, symphony-loud and booming, grating on his bristle-bright nerve endings and grinding against his ear drums. He hurries to follow it.

 

The last one – picked up at a bar in Los Angeles – was delicious. Early thirties and with a wedding band wrapped around his finger, he didn’t bother with a defensible argument when Pete suggested they get out of there and find someplace a little quieter. He introduced himself on his knees, Pete’s cock, dark with someone else’s blood, nudged to his lips as he whispered _I’m Ricky, by the way._ He died hours later, his last word a whisper of a plea but not for mercy. No, he begged for the almost-death that Pete can’t decide is a plague or a beautiful, brilliant blessing. He liked Ricky with his soft paunch and eager grin. Pity, really.

 

The kid is sat on the swing set, the only actor on a full moon stage, fingers curled around chain linked steel as he watches Pete approach from under the fortress of his oversized hood and trashed bangs. Pete can’t see his eyes, just shadow that paints him skull-like and ghostly. Not that Pete fears anything that walks in the shadows but he – whoever he is this time – doesn’t flinch, heel planted firm as he rocks slowly back and forth and Pete approaches. He moves to the merry-go-round, far enough that he doesn’t seem like a threat, close enough that he could cover the distance in three long strides. The kid’s jaw works slowly.

 

“Why are you following me?” he asks quietly – his pulse quickens but it’s not panic – breath sharp with the smell of peppermint and Mr Pibb.

 

“Who says I’m following _you?”_ Pete asks, fiddling with a buckle on his coat, eyes on his fingers until he glances up, disinterested. “What’s so special about you, hm?”

 

“You tell me,” Patrick leans his head back, hood slipping down and revealing glittered-gold hair and the plush of a plump lower lip curved into a smirk. “Patrick,” Pete quirks an eyebrow in question, elbows braced back to the cold kiss of the metal frame behind him, “my name. It’s Patrick.”

 

Of course it is. Pete can feel the smile tugging the corners of his mouth, tinged with moonlight and terrible decisions. Patrick’s, not his. Boys that stray from the path are low-hanging fruit, ripe and lush and ready for the sink of Pete’s fingers into tender flesh.

 

“Pete,” he offers with a quirk of an eyebrow, Patrick looks like he already knew that, something secretive flirting at the petal-plush edges of his smile. Pete sends himself spinning, the toe of his Converse propelling him in a lazy circle, vision swimming with the vista of Patrick, jungle gym, sandpit, slide, Patrick. He judders to a halt with a scrape of his shoe against the rubberised safety flooring and watches the way Patrick’s pulse flutters under the butter-soft skin of his throat. “You’re out late.”

 

“So are you, asshole,” Patrick says. Pete can hear the way his lips move against his teeth, the way his breath hitches just a little as he tucks his hands back into his pockets and stares at Pete with defiance flaring flame-bright in his eyes. “What are you _doing_ here?”

 

They’re both surprised at that, Pete can feel his eyes widen as Patrick fidgets, withdraws a hand to snake his thumbnail between the snag of his teeth, worrying it compulsively as he stares at something far away. Pete’s stomach is hollow – he hasn’t eaten in days, famine before feast – his tongue playing over his lips as he watches Patrick flush pink with embarrassment and sweet, heated blood. He always did look good with that rose-bloom blush cresting his cheeks, with fire in his eyes and stuttered nonsense on his tongue.

 

Padraig was the same, flushed pink with ale and arousal, his crown of wheat-gold hair fanned to the tavern wall behind him as Pete licked his way over the exquisite length of a cock he already knew each inch of. Pale fingers clutched with bone-sharp vigour into Pete’s hair as he thrust down the cool-wet-slick of his throat. If he thought it was strange that Pete wasn’t warm then he didn’t say so. He didn’t say much, not even as Pete tore into the silk-soft vein in his thigh, not as his blood rushed hot and thick and sticky down Pete’s throat.

 

Pete laced the man’s breeches back up afterwards before he left him in the alley, glassy-eyed and lifeless. It seemed a shame to imagine anyone laughing at him.

 

“I like being out at night,” he shrugs as he moves to the swing next to Patrick, straddling it so the rubber digs into his thighs through the cover of his skinny jeans. Patrick’s jeans are ripped over the knees, the ridges and lines of his kneecaps visible through the skin, the visual reminder that beneath it all, under the attitudes and the ineptitude and the sheer fucking human _brilliance_ of them, all men are made of  the same bone and sinew. “It’s… quiet.”

 

It isn’t, not really, he can hear the rustle of the breeze through blades of grass, the infinitesimal squeak of the swing chains, the rush of blood in Patrick’s veins and the sound of his own pointless parody of respiration. But the answer seems to satisfy Patrick who cocks his head to consider the stars, cheek pressed to the cool links of the chain in his fist.

 

“So,” Patrick rolls his gum from one side of his mouth to the other, stretching it taut over his tongue and sucking sharply, the gum popping whip-crack sharp. “Are you gonna tell me why you were following me?”

 

“It’s…” Pete trails off for a moment and considers his answer, honey-hazed gaze pinned on the trees over Patrick’s left shoulder as the moon smirks down at them. “Complicated,” he finishes after a beat, pushing the blunt press of his teeth into the chilled push of his lip as he flicks his eyes to Patrick.

 

The kid stares right back at him. There’s no fear in the summer sky depth of his eyes as he nods and shrugs, as his breath ruffles warm and sweet over his lips. Pete likes watching them breathe, loves to feel it bead dewdrops against his skin as they pant and gasp. He bites into the flesh of his cheek as he watches the stutter of Patrick’s skin at his throat, right in the hollow where it dips to his collarbone. His teeth ache a little more.

 

“I figured you’d show up soon,” Patrick mutters, gaze averted to consider the toes of his beat-up boots. There’s a noise at the back of Pete’s throat that sounds like a question, a sharp new focus to his eyes that could be an accusation as Patrick stammers and rushes to explain. “Like… I’ve seen you around. You know? Following me. Figured you’d come talk to me sooner or later.”

 

Patrick’s lying, that’s not what he meant and they both know it. There’s something off about the whole situation, some shifting sense of uncertainty under Pete’s feet like he’s in the wrong room of an unfamiliar house and searching for anchor points of familiarity in strange wallpaper and not-quite-right furniture. They rock on their swings for a moment and if Patrick has noticed the fact that Pete’s breath - cold, like the rest of him - isn’t fogging, then he’s too polite to mention it.

 

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Pete offers with a shrug. He’s not really sorry - he isn’t _really_ sorry for much - but he likes this one, he reminds him of Patrik. Well, they _all_ remind him of Patrik, but there’s something in the challenge of his eyes, the defiant tilt of his chin. He’s already half-convinced that he’ll keep this one around for a while. He’s growing tired of one night stands.

 

“Hey,” Patrick looks at him after a pause, heel grinding half circles into the wood chips at his feet. Pete smiles - tooth bright and brilliant - from the cowl-like shroud of his hood. The hood Patrick points to with a lazy finger. “Take that thing off. Let me take a look at the dude that _hasn’t_ been following my ass for three weeks.”

 

“No,” Pete shakes his head slowly. His jaw is throbbing with the effort of keeping his fangs at bay, the physical ache that would beat with his pulse if he had one. “So, do you want to get out of here? I have a place nearby…”

 

It’s not a lie and the house is nice. Tucked away quietly down a tree-lined driveway a couple of blocks over with fancy cars out back. It’s a shame that he has to be quite so… forceful in his possession of property these days. He has a couple more days at best before someone comes looking for the owners. Patrick - the ungrateful little shit - just laughs, rich and sweet and aimed at Pete as he smirks mockingly.

 

“Are you… _hitting_ on me?” Patrick’s grin is smeared across his face like last night’s eyeliner. Pete slips off the swing and moves to stand behind him, a soft shove to the small of his back - he’s warm, _so_ warm, even through the hoodie - that stutters him forward as he lifts his feet obediently. When he swings back, thumps to Pete’s chest, he catches hold of him by the hips, pins him there for just a moment and brings the soft frigidity of his lips to graze the salt-bright blaze of the skin of Patrick’s ear.

 

“Would that be a problem?” he whispers as Patrick shudders against him, just for a moment, a stroke of the second hand and he’s pushing him away once more. But he can hear the high-tide roar of Patrick’s pulse, sense the way blood pools in more _interesting_ places as the burnt sharpness of pheromones stickies the air between them.

 

“I dunno, man,” Patrick feigns casual as he swings slowly back and forth. He’s a shitty actor. “You’re not really my type. I’m pretty sure I’m into pussy and you’ve got that whole… prince of darkness, edgelord vibe going on. No offence, but I’m not really into Hot Topic goths.”

 

This time, when Pete snags him by the hips he makes sure to press his fingertips into the soft give of plush, warm flesh. He sinks his nails in through cotton and cold autumn air and feels the jolt and shift of every atom of Patrick’s being under his hands. He drops his head, nose finding the glutinous throb of Patrick’s pulse - warm, vibrant, _alive_ \- catching the copper-sweet hum of it with a breath drawn sharp and raw. Saliva blooms, slick and cloying at the back of his mouth as he parts his lips and, groan torn greedy from his throat, he swipes a broad lick over the glowing promise of a blood-rich vein.

 

Patrick stiffens, drawn bow tight, then sags, a marionette with strings sharply sliced as his head rolls to the side, as the invitation falls from wordless lips. Pete watches them move without framing a sound, watches the way Patrick sinks his teeth into the flushed swell of the lower one. He slides a hand to the front of Patrick’s jeans, to feel the aching throb of his swollen cock through cotton and denim as Patrick hisses approval in arched-high hips.

 

Pete’s jaw is agonising, crimson streaks of poker-hot pain bolting through his skull.

 

“Seems to me,” he murmurs, fingers finding the familiar curve of Patrick’s prick, mapping the way it swells beneath his jeans. “That I might be just your type after all.”

 

“Oh God,” Patrick whispers, knuckles twisted to ivory against the swing chains.

 

“Not quite,” Pete’s laughter laps like dark water around the edges, caught and tangled like lakeshore reeds as he steps back, as he lets the shadows take him. As he lets his fangs dig sharp into the plump edge of his lower lip.

 

He doesn’t look back as he takes off across the park, as his hands sink with clenched-tight fists into the depths of his pockets, black nails biting crescents into his palms like the mocking curve of the moon that sneers down from above. It flirts behind clouds, hiding eyes and timeless smiles behind thinly veiled grey gossamer, as though the very stars stand in judgement. Let them state. Let them judge. Pete is not in the mood to deny himself.

 

Patrick saunters after him.

 

Pete slows his pace like he’s casual about it, feet scuffing asphalt as Patrick picks up his speed like he doesn’t care until they’re in step and mirrored. Patrick hands are tucked in his pockets, shoulders hunched and hood drawn back up once more. They don’t speak as they walk but by the time they’re at the mouth of the driveway Pete is half feral with the smell of him, clinging to the last ragged edge of his sanity with fingertips that skitter against the worn-smooth surface of it, sweat-slick and slippery.

 

“Nice place,” Patrick observes, lips quirked lush and shining. “Funny, I thought some fancy lawyer dude lived here…”

 

“He did.” Pete shrugs as they slip through the front door. He leaves the lights off, he hasn’t really cleaned up much since he arrived and there’s no need for Patrick to see the… mess. “Now I do.”

 

“Right,” Patrick nods, pupils blown wide open. He’s still not afraid - Pete has no idea how human senses work, he doesn’t remember the two decades or so of soft weakness before this, can he smell the scent of metallic death that hangs in the air? If he can, he doesn’t react, pulse increasing but not from panic as Pete closes in, as he touches a hand to the vibrant warmth of that pale cheek.

 

Patrick doesn’t flinch. Even men have cold hands on fall nights.

 

“Can I kiss you?” Pete whispers, unsure about the formality but trying it out anyway.

 

“Sure,” Patrick murmurs, hopelessly hesitant as he twists his hands for a second.

 

Pete pulls him in, touches his lips to the sun-scorch heat of Patrick’s mouth, tastes sugar-candy sweetness that cloys his lips. Patrick is only cast in uncertainty for a moment, a couple of pumps of his heart then he’s groaning, fists caught in the cotton of Pete’s hood, tongue licking against the roof of his mouth. It tickles, sunburst bright sensation - or what Pete imagines it might be like to feel sunlight dapple his skin - drawing each damp, heated exhale let loose from Patrick’s lungs into his own. His teeth catch as Patrick pulls back, snagging into the swollen ripeness of his lip, a fleck of honeyed copper spotting Pete’s tongue.

 

Patrick gasps, high and sharp as grasping lungs heave in greedy gulps of oxygen, eyes wide as his fingertips graze the bloodied skin.

 

“Show me,” he mumbles, around the press of his fingers, tongue flicking temptingly to gather up the ruby shine that drowns out every other sight-smell-taste in the room. Pete is frozen, head dropped and hands fisted into Patrick’s hair as he holds him warily at arms length and tries to remember all of the reasons he shouldn’t just tear his throat out. “Come on… show me.”

 

Pete shakes his head, slow and fuzzy with burning indecision, teeth tingling. He doesn’t know how he looks when he’s like this, the mirror in the hall shows nothing but a boy, wide-eyed and gasping and splayed to the wall. Dammit, he should have covered that up. No, he doesn’t know what men see when they look at him like this, but he knows they always run and tonight he has no desire to give chase.

 

“I - I remember,” Patrick whispers around the spit-thick roll of his tongue, stained pink and tempting. “I remember you and… I don’t know!” he slams his fist to the wall behind him, lips pushed flush to a pensive pout. “I thought it was fucking… nightmares or something when I was a kid but… but… I _felt_ you. I _know_ you. Just… show me. Please? Show me I’m not fucking insane.”

 

There’s something earnest and sincere caught in the frame of Patrick’s eyes. They’re not emotions Pete can recall feeling for himself but he knows men, he knows their language and the things they can say without breathing a word and Patrick means every copper-glazed one that he utters. If Pete had a heartbeat it would pulse in time with the bass-heavy throb of Patrick’s Walkman. If he could breathe, he would be panting, raking desperate lungfuls of air as he stares at the kid in front of him.

 

Of course, if either of those things were the case, he’d have been dead and gone and faded to dust centuries ago, so it’s something of a moot point.

 

There’s no fear etched on Patrick’s face as Pete reaches to lower his hood, nothing but barely concealed excitement that crackles between them as he bounces on the toes of his worn out Converse and scrambles to help. He pauses as the hood pools at Pete’s shoulders, as he turns so his features catch the weak wash of moonlight through the windows, head cocked in consideration. His thumb is unbearably hot, scorching a brand into Pete’s skin as Patrick trails along the crest of his cheekbone. Patrick’s lips move silently, questions framed that he must know Pete can’t answer, thumb winding maddeningly to trace the curve of Pete’s lip, a gasp hissed between clenched teeth as Pete opens his mouth, lets the callous-rough skin snag on the piercing sharpness of his teeth.

 

“You’re not afraid?” Pete asks, grinning devilishly in the dark.

 

“No,” Patrick breathes, all awed adoration and golden glances. “You’re… fucking _beautiful.”_

 

They take the stairs with a reckless disregard for the fact that Patrick manages to be both brittle and soft in all of the wrong places, that their staggered missteps and groping hands could send him plummeting over the handrail to crash to the hardwood below. He doesn’t _care_ because there’s a searing hand in his jeans, working along the hard length of his cock with distractingly precise strokes.

 

“‘You’re cold,” Patrick shivers slightly, warm fingers dancing through the dark curls that frame Pete’s prick.

 

“I’ll warm up,” Pete grins, noose-tight possession fiercely brilliant in his gut as he ruts into Patrick’s grasp.

 

It’s a stutter of staggered steps down the hallway to the bedroom - the room with the windows painted black to ward off the dawn - a breathless grunt from Patrick as he tumbles to the mattress and hauls Pete down with him. Clothes are pulled away, torn and ripped and thrown to the ground until he has him, ethereal and marble pale in the glitter-gold lamplight, gift wrapped in nothing but a pair of close-fitting shorts.

 

Patrick is whispering names like daydreams, a litany of every moniker Pete’s ever given him over the centuries and he wonders, fingers pressing brands into the plush of Patrick’s hips, just how much he remembers. How much is true memory, how much is twisted nightmare, macabre fantasy twisted from half-recalled visions and glorified almost-memories. Pete wonders if he should be more concerned that this is the first time Patrick has remembered the times that came before. He decides it doesn’t matter, the outcome will be the same.

 

Head ducked but eyes raised, he licks over the damp patch that forms the apex of the tented push of Patrick’s shorts, the _x_ that marks the spot of the blood-gorged crown of his cock. Salted bitter sucked through cotton, drawn with greedy lips to stain the curling flicker of his tongue as his fingernails bite blunt crescents into the searing heat of Patrick’s thighs. Patrick shivers above him, all arched hips and pleading moans, fingers tangling in the fall of Pete’s hair as he strains and begs and gasps each plea.

 

“Eager,” Pete observes with a smirk tossed like a casual accusation between them. Patrick glares from under the frame of lashes that sparkle gold in the lamplight, from beneath bangs already curling against his brow with the sheen of sweat that paints him sparkling.

 

“Dude eager to get his dick sucked,” he quips with a quirk of a sneer. “Hold the front fucking page.”

 

He flutters in closed-eye bliss as Pete eases down his shorts, as he tosses them off to the side somewhere and slides his tongue against the drag of hair over skin. Patrick shivers, the shudder vibrating him hot and vibrant under the press of Pete’s palms.

 

“You want me to suck your dick?” Pete queries, pausing to press his fangs into the plush give of Patrick’s inner thigh, just hard enough for the threat of broken skin and blood. He shoots a lazy grin like friendly fire into the blaze of Patrick’s eyes as he presses fractionally harder and floods his mouth with the hint of copper-salt sweetness. Patrick hisses.

 

“A little less toothy, maybe,” he mutters. “No one likes teeth.”

 

“Oh,” Pete whispers, grazing the razor-sharp promise of them along the line of Patrick’s groin, the prickle of goosebumps staining pale skin. “You’ll grow to love it, I’m sure.”

 

Now where did that come from? Pete knows how this works, that Patrick has witnessED his last sunset, that he’s crossed the threshold willingly and won’t scuff his battered boots over it again. He lowers his ear to Patrick’s femoral artery and hears the pulse and push of rich crimson rushing beneath satin skin as he pushes pursed-pout kisses to the heated flush of Patrick’s leaking cock. He loves the smell of him like this, the pre-come sharpness and teenage sweat all tangled in hair and skin and vibrant _aliveness._ It would be so easy to bare his teeth and take a taste, to rip through butter soft skin and candy flesh as his mouth stains like ruby red fistfights.

 

He could drain him in under a minute. He knows Patrick wouldn’t put up a fight.

 

“Cold,” Patrick gasps like he’s drowning as Pete flips to his knees and takes him in with a growl. “Fuck, you’re… you’re really cold…”

 

He thinks - but doesn’t say - that Patrick wouldn’t notice it if Pete were to chill him just the same, if their cold skin were to press together it would feel normal. Like coming home. Patrick’s dick feels like it’s burning, flame-bright and scorching the press of his lips and tongue as he sucks him harder, swallows him deeper. Patrick cries out, torn rough from his throat as he twists his fingers into the sheets until they’re pale-knuckled and trembling with cramp. He fucks his way down Pete’s throat with greedy thrusts and needy groans, pulsing richly thick with blood beneath skin that would break with the slightest pressure of Pete’s fangs.

 

He pulls off when it gets too much, when the urge to sink his teeth into blood-gorged veins makes his very throat itch with need. Full lips flushed and skin prickled sharp with sensitivity, Patrick whimpers into the pillow as his cock twitches, split slick and shining and dark with need. With blood, bright and vibrant.

 

Pete moves, graceful and precise, knees spread as he looms at the head of the bed. Patrick rolls to his side, tongue dabbing glitter-shine to the plumply ripe line of his lower lip as he reaches to touch the aching strain of Pete’s cock. He blinks up, all innocence and desire hidden behind a demure smile as his fingers burn a brand flesh-deep into the curve of his prick.

 

“I’ve never done this before,” Patrick lies like he knows it’s what Pete wants to hear. “You’re my first.”

 

“I’ll take it slow,” Pete replies with just the same level of insincerity. Patrick’s leans in, tongue first, pressed to catch cool pearls gathered at the head of Pete’s prick. Pete hisses through clenched teeth, head thrown back as his nails rake against Patrick’s scalp and liquid heat pools out from the pulled-taut thrust of his cock. Patrick grins, cocky and confident as he flips his tongue under the flared crown of it, circling the pointed tip to catch blazing nerve endings with shudder-shock precision. Pete tightens his hands in spun gold strands and growls out a warning. “Patrick…”

 

“Am I doing this all wrong?” Patrick blinks up innocently, lips pursed as he licks softly at the tender tip like he’s eating pussy, sensation crawling up Pete’s spine as he snarls. Patrick flutters his lashes and smirks his bad decisions as he continues. “I told you, I’ve never done this before… with a guy, anyway…”

 

Pete keeps that hand fisted tight in Patrick’s hair and draws him down, inch by eager hot-blood inch over the length of his cock. Patrick takes him all, sucks him with an eager moan as his eyelids flutter. Lips stretched around the root of Pete’s dick, flushed pink and pretty and slicked damp.

 

“You’re such a good boy,” he murmurs, fingers curled along Patrick’s jaw as he guides him up to the head, shivers senseless at the way that warm, pink tongue curls around him for a moment before sliding him back down. “Look at you, taking my cock like that, like it’s all you want to do, so good for me… Do you want my cock, Patrick?”

 

Patrick hums an affirmative and curls his fingers around the leaking length of his own blood-dark prick, thumbing through the slick mess at the tip. Pete thinks this could be the most beautiful he’s ever seen him, spinning pearlescent streaks across the sweat-damp of his palm and blinking desire from eyes dewed with diamonds. This Patrick and not the ones before, this one, with his sharp tongue and knowing eyes and mind that remembers each touch that came before. Each bite. Each tear of bone into flesh and still came back, still walked without fear into a beginning he knew was an end from the moment he strolled into the park.

 

Pete blinks away dizziness and forces his mind blank, makes himself think of nothing but the rolling motion of Patrick’s tongue around his cock, the blunted brilliance of nails sinking sharp into the round of his ass. He thinks of nothing but the way Patrick’s mouth strokes desperation into his rocking hips. If Pete may permit himself a moment - one amongst the decades turned centuries turned millenia that have fallen before - of self indulgent imagining, he imagines that this could be it. Just… _this._ An eternity of _this._

 

Fingers knotted to the nape of Patrick’s neck he pulls him off, hauls him up to his knees and holds him lover-close. He tucks his nose to the hollow of Patrick’s throat and smells him, smells lust and skin and vibrantly pulsing heat that flickers beneath his lips. Patrick throws back his head, throat a long line of pale temptation. Pete can _hear_ the throb of his pulse.

 

“I’m going to fuck you,” he mutters and it’s thick around his fangs, caught on the blood-drunk slur of clumsy lips and a tripping tongue. This seemed easy as he followed behind him - turned dizzy with the knowledge that he was near - it seemed as though it would be like the times that fell before. But Patrick blinks from his daze, eyes sharp and smirk knowing as he curls a hand to Pete’s cheek, as he bites briefly at his lower lip before whispering softly.

 

“Pétr.”

 

The pronunciation is exquisite, fingers trailed the length of Pete’s spine and twisting shocks through his nervous system. It encompasses any number of lifetimes and innumerable bad decisions that Pete wants to amend.

 

No.

 

Pete doesn’t _care._

 

He finds himself - unwillingly - wondering about this Patrick, about the parents that may mourn him, the friend in the band with a guitar left unplayed. He. Doesn’t. Fucking. Care. But he still takes a moment to stroke the pad of his thumb over the crest of Patrick’s cheekbone, to press it between the lush dampness of his lips and whisper with something that spills close to tenderness.

 

“Patrik.”

 

Patrick turns, the not-quite-man of him betrayed by the sinful roll of his hips, the way he braces to the headboard and spreads his legs, on display all pink and tight and indescribably lovely. He’s caught in profile as he glances back over his shoulder (freckled with sun spots doomed to fade in darkness for their won’t be another summer’s kiss to them - Pete pretends not to notice how beautiful they are) and smirks his youthful arrogance.

 

“There’s lube,” he shifts and stirs up the stench of sex from between his legs. Pete hisses a desperate breath he doesn’t need and sinks his fingers into the pillowed round of Patrick’s ass. “In my hoodie.”

 

He’s sun-bright and shining, glowing gold in the lamplight and Pete wonders - too much self indulgence beating in his veins where there should be blood - how he’d suit moonlight. He suited it well enough on a suburban swing set robed in grunge and teenage attitude. But that was a borrowed costume, set dressing make believe and not the same as donning the robes for real. How might he look cast eternally in new-penny glitter and ivory-shine wickedness? He breaks his train of thought to grab at the abandoned hoodie and doesn’t stop to question why he moves the clothes away, why he makes sure they won’t be stained and ruined by what’s to come.

 

What difference does it make? It’s not as though he’ll need them again…

 

“Is it your first time doing this, too?” he whispers into Patrick’s ear as two fingers slicked slippery and crossed like a good luck charm breach tight resistance. If Patrick tastes the need the hangs between them as Pete’s teeth find the velvet tag of his earlobe, he doesn’t show it.

 

“Yeah,” he breathes, rocking further-deeper-harder onto the invasion of flesh and bone into his body as more beautiful lies dance on his tongue. “You’re the first.”

 

Another finger, another artwork of teeth marks pressed to the salt-satin of Patrick’s throat. Hard enough to bruise, to score their presence like blood bloomed on linen but not enough to break skin. Not yet. Patrick fucks back onto his fingers, riding his hand with melodious little moans that pitch up and up to choral cries as Pete crooks his fingers and feels the graze of their pads to Patrick’s prostate.

 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, cool lips catching warm sweat and the sticky catch of curling hair. “That’s the spot, isn’t it baby?”

 

He slicks his cock as Patrick babbles blasphemous declarations to the wallpaper in front of him, palm sliding against nerve-raw skin that throbs with need.

 

“Fuck me,” Patrick says. He isn’t begging, it’s a demand, a furious command caught in the smoked dirft of his voice from the fucked-raw grasp of his throat. “I’m ready, just… fuck me.”

 

Pete eases his fingers free, a moment taken to admire the pale curve of Patrick’s ass framing the soft pink pucker of his hole. He lines up, cock shivered sharp with static-shock shudders that crackle over his skin. He presses forward just enough, just enough to begin to spread Patrick open for him, to feel his lust-thick cock push just inside, enveloping the bruise-bright tip in blazing heat. He sinks his teeth into his lip so hard he’s sure he’ll bite through, borrowed blood welling on his tongue and lacing the bouquet of sex, sweat and lube with saccharine copper.

 

Patrick hums in front of him, thighs stretched over Pete’s, hand curled around the lust-slick curve of his pretty pink prick as he strokes himself. Pete times his thrust in with the slow downstroke of Patrick’s palm, the way he drags the skin taut and and leaves himself flushed and weeping salt pearl shine. Patrick groans, a thrum of his chest that vibrates straight to Pete’s cock as he seats himself inside indescribable heat. He hooks his chin to the pale line of Patrick’s shoulder and wraps an arm in hungry possession around his waist. The sweat-bright sharpness of his tattoos is stark enough against the gold of his own skin, next to Patrick’s it’s close to shocking, light and dark, flesh-drawn symbolism.

 

“Is that good?” Pete rolls his hips, a testing little thrust rewarded with the tight clench of Patrick around him.

 

“Fuck me,” Patrick is clenched teeth sharpness, issuing orders with eyes squeezed closed. “Come on, Pete. This is what you wanted, what you always want, do it…”

 

Pete runs a fingertip around the fuck-stretched rim of Patrick’s hole, his chuckle dark and chasing shivers along the length of Patrick’s spine, “You want my cock?” he growls like midnight footsteps. “You take it yourself.”

 

Patrick whines and flexes the bone-bold glow of his knuckles against the headboard, head rolled forward as he braces on his knees for just a moment, a slow withdraw along the hard length of Pete’s cock. He rolls his hips on the head, teasing with tightness as he breathes deep and, with a throaty little grunt, he slides back, burying Pete inside him once more, shoving himself open for him. They cry out together as he does it again, slow upstroke, downstroke delivered like a blow and then he nods but not to Pete, bites his lip once more and starts to thrust.

 

And it’s not enough, the press and thrust of his cock into Patrick’s body as they move together, as they roll like storm waves, salt-capped and desperately dark beneath the surface. It doesn’t soothe that under-the-skin itch that crawls through his veins, it doesn’t ease the darkness of his thoughts. He grasps Patrick’s stiff prick, flicks his thumb over the ridged cap and slides along the slit. He swallows each moan with greed as Patrick kisses him with sloppy need over his shoulder. He licks over freckles and bites at sun spots until Patrick is trembling against him.

 

“Tell me what you want,” he demands as his fangs itch, as his gums throb and his tongue tingles with the flood of anticipation.

 

“Do it,” Patrick hisses, he doesn’t say what _it_ is but it’s not like Pete doesn’t know. He tweaks the tight peak of a stiff, pink nipple and nips another bruise to Patrick’s pulse point.

 

He fucks into him harder, the flush of his cock snagging sharp on the fraying edges of Patrick’s impending undoing. Patrick coils tight around him, spring-sharp and waiting-needing-wanting. He tugs and strokes the burning length of Patrick’s prick until he’s crying out with burnt raw lungs, hoarse and wanting and thoroughly, _beautifully_ fucked.

 

When Patrick comes undone, it’s like a hurricane.

 

It’s the force of the wind stealing air from Pete’s lungs that he never knew he needed, it’s a pound in his chest that feels like the echo of things that once were there, it’s a hot wet slick over his hand that’s gossamer pearl rather than crimson gore. Patrick sings for him, a throbbing well of stuttered moans that fall from fuck-flushed lips as he jerks and shudders and… and… bares his throat…

 

Pete’s tearing into the vein before he can think, teeth sliding through butter-soft skin and flooding his mouth with metallic crimson that sticks to his lips, his tongue, coating his mouth and his throat and his gullet as he sucks and gorges and Patrick shudders shockwaves around his cock. Pete comes, thick and endless into the depths of Patrick’s body, liquid need of lust replacing the flood that pours from the jagged wound at Patrick’s throat. Pete comes and drinks and feels the world explode to so much dust around him as he watches a masterpiece of glittered gold paint the back of his eyelids.

 

He drinks until Patrick begins to shake, shock setting in as his eyes glass with incomprehension. He drinks more until Patrick is limp and slack in his arms and his pulse is barely enough to well rubies at the place Pete has ripped him open. He drinks until he stops, cock slipping from tight heat as he flips Patrick to his back beneath him and - before he can overthink it - he tears into his own wrist.

 

He hauls Patrick’s head into his lap, wound pressed to pale lips. It takes a moment, a slow trickle of borrowed blood over the limp lounge of Patrick’s tongue. He wonders for a panicked second if he went too far, if he did it again but Patrick lunges, grabs at his hand and hauls him closer, sucking greedy mouthfuls down his throat. He drinks until his pulse weakens, until his breathing falters and flutters and his eyes blink closed.

 

He dies in Pete’s arms with lips dyed crimson.

 

Pete hauls him under the blankets to keep him warm for as long as possible and retreats to spend the night at the hallway window, watching the stars fade as the sky shifts black to blue to smudged and smokey purple streaked with orange and blood red.

 

He wonders if he should feel regret that Patrick will never see the sun rise again. He decides not to think about it as he retreats to the safety of painted black windows and the residual warmth still clinging to Patrick’s body as he slides beneath the covers next to him.

 

He wakes to a choking gasp next to him, to the flounder and kick of a man drowning in air as Patrick thrashes against the mattress with wide eyes. Pete can’t hear a heartbeat as he pins him still and whispers soothing nonsense into his ear, as tenderness wells in his chest.

 

Pete can see the glitter-gleam threat of those fangs though.

 

Patrick fights against him, snaps his freshly-minted teeth in Pete’s direction as he growls and snarls and fights for breath he doesn’t need. They all do this, when they wake, panicked by that human need to breathe. They lose the habit so quickly, though most agree it’s a good way to break up the silence.

 

“Patrick, shh, it’s me,” he soothes, hand soft to Patrick’s cheek. He no longer feels hot, no longer burns into the chill of Pete’s skin as he blinks and breathes and calms beneath him. “It’s just me.”

 

“Am I…?” he begins, wide-eyed with confusion. “Did you…?”

 

“Yes,” Pete whispers, guiding Patrick’s calloused fingertips to test the sharp snag of his fangs. Patrick pauses, head cocked, and traces them with the tip of his tongue. “Are you okay?”

 

Patrick seems to consider this question for a moment, pale skin gleaming. Pete understands now why Patrick called him beautiful, why this glow of ethereal vitality and the predator-like perfection of the ivory daggers in his smile held such appeal. Patrick was beautiful before, now he’s something else entirely.

 

“Thirsty,” he snarls after a moment. “So fucking thirsty.”

 

“Okay,” Pete grins, shoving his shirt into his hands. “Get dressed.”

 

Patrick doesn’t argue and Pete doesn’t say any more, sliding on second-skin jeans and the cloak of his coat. Patrick tugs on his jeans and throws on his shirt, pale skin concealed as he shrugs on his hoodie and reaches for his shoes. He checks his phone and looks up, eyes gleaming devilish in the gloom as he smiles, tooth-bright and robed in something dark as he raises it to his ear.

 

“Hey, Joe,” he begins with a grin that Pete’s sure would send the very stars into hiding. “You up for practice tonight? I’ll be bringing a friend…”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that, doctorkilljoy! It was a blast to write!


End file.
